Of Anger and Forgiveness
by starry19
Summary: Part III Added, now complete. "Someone once said that there was a thin line between love and hate. Teresa Lisbon was fairly certain she had erased this line, especially where Patrick Jane was concerned." Post 5x1. Part III also comes with a slightly more mature rating.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So. Season Premiere. Officially, there isn't a woman in the world who can't identify with how angry Lisbon is. This is also the first time I've attempted Lisbon's point of view, and I'm not sure how it went. The words just sort of tumbled out. And on a side note: argyle socks. Yes and yesser, Patrick Jane.

Disclaimer: Let me check – yeah, still not mine.

**Of Anger and Forgiveness **

Someone once said that there was a thin line between love and hate.

Teresa Lisbon was fairly certain she had erased this line, especially where Patrick Jane was concerned.

She loved him. Was in love with him. Horribly, absolutely, and decidedly in love with him.

Conversely, she loathed him. Had happy fantasies about punching him square in the nose or screaming at him until she had finally gotten rid of the sheer rage that had possessed her lately.

Like that's all it would take to dispel her of such a huge amount of emotion. A little yelling.

If she was honest, she was completely out of her depth. Being in love with Jane was something she had been able to deal with. True, sometimes she didn't deal particularly well, like when he disappeared for six months and she wound up looking like something from a bad horror movie. Still, she had managed to cope, managed to keep her life moving in a semi-normal manner.

This whole…mess…with Lorelei was something else entirely.

He had slept with her. Ruined himself with her. And was now fighting so hard to keep her within arm's reach. And when that happened? He kissed her, the very first time in the interview room.

But only after he had literally laughed off any suggestion of being in love with her.

And then, he had punched her in the shoulder. Punched her. In the goddamn shoulder. And attempted to give her a blanket apology without actually apologizing for anything.

All things considered, she felt like the only option she had left was to get absolutely and totally drunk as soon as she got home. Maybe then she would give into this urge to shriek like some sort of wild person, to give a voice to her pain. The outburst of emotion would more than likely make her sick, and then she would have done everything she felt like doing at the moment- drinking, screaming, and throwing up.

Her sense of dark humor was touched. That seemed to be the only sense of humor she had left: the morbid and macabre kind.

To make her day absolutely perfect, Lorelei Martins had escaped, and no one seemed to have any idea how that had happened. Jane was beside himself. She found she didn't give a damn. He certainly didn't want comfort from her, in any case.

Seething with another wave of inarticulate fury, she slammed her things into her bag. The rest of the team was heading out for the night; she had seen them go one by one past her office. Jane was still lurking somewhere in the building, she was sure, but she would not worry about him.

Her office door was on compressed hinges; slamming it was impossible and so her exit was utterly unsatisfying. She stalked down the hallway, heels clicking angrily on the floor.

What a horrible ending to a horrible day.

Had she just thought that? Why on earth would she challenge God in such a manner?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jane coming down the stairs just to the side of the elevator. Almost clinically, she noticed that his hair was doing strange things again. His suit was rumpled, and he was starting to reacquire the air of dishevelment he had picked up during his stint in Vegas.

And he was like this over another woman. Forcefully, she bit down on her back teeth.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked, as soon as he was close enough to speak at a normal volume.

"No," she said succinctly. Normally, she would have expounded on her answer. Tonight, she found she didn't care. He had made it very clear that she was an idiot and that he had absolutely no reciprocation of feelings towards her. So what if he hadn't actually said the words? His actions had spoken volumes.

With effort, she pushed the elevator call button without using a telltale amount of force. Please, God, let it come soon.

Jane ran a hand through his already wild hair, a very uncharacteristic gesture. "I told Bertram this would happen. I told him." His eyes found hers, and she saw a trace of something desperate in them.

She held her base instincts to reassure him in check and said nothing.

He noticed the departure from the norm suddenly: her silence, her generally defensive posturing. Just like he had in the car on the way back from Boone, he gave her a long, searching look. She wasn't sure what he was looking for, both then and now, and she supposed that really, it hardly mattered. She held his eyes without flinching.

Whatever he saw there seemed to disquiet him. His brow furrowed, and his arm reached towards her. Maybe he was going to tap her in the shoulder again.

Blessedly, mercifully, the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. Reigning in her sigh of relief, she stepped neatly around him and into the car, praying he didn't follow her.

He didn't. And absurdly, she was disappointed.

The downpour of rain, so at odds with the brilliant blue skies of earlier, fit her mood. Unbidden, she had a flashback of Jane in the rain, golden head tossed back, trying to catch raindrops on his tongue. It had been one of the very first times he had let her see the man he was underneath the suits and glib charm.

And now she wondered if even that was real.

As soon as she crossed the threshold into her apartment, the weight of the day crashed on her and she nearly staggered from exhaustion.

This was too much for any one person to bear. Her feelings for Jane, the entanglement with his lover, his total lack of feeling towards her…it was overwhelming.

Teresa Lisbon did not get to be the youngest person to ever head a CBI unit by being easily overwhelmed. The feeling was foreign, alien. And unwelcome.

She snagged a beer from the nearly empty refrigerator and twisted off the top. Sitting on the couch, she closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the full, chilled bottle in her hand. There was some comfort in that gesture, from knowing that peace could be found in the depths of the brown glass.

Well, she mused, maybe not at the bottom of this particular bottle, but perhaps after a few more she could find a little tranquility. She leaned back, pressing her head into the cushions.

What a nightmare she had managed to land herself in.

The beer slid down her throat easily. Something in the back of her mind informed her that alcohol was not the way to cope with her problems. Had she not learned anything from her father?

The hell with him, she thought, with sudden violence. And to hell with the rest of the men in her life.

Especially Patrick Jane.

She had nearly killed herself off over that man. In the past six months, she had stopped sleeping, stopped eating, subsisting only on alcohol, caffeine, and whatever meals the team happened to stop for during investigations.

Professionally speaking, she had most definitely killed her career. This was as far as she was ever going to go. Jane had effectively ruined her chances for advancing. She had called in every favor she had ever manage to accumulate, to exert every iota of influence she had for him.

And he simply expected it now. That she would bend over backwards to help him, without even stopping to think about it. Granted, most of the time she _didn't_, but it would be nice if he acknowledged the sacrifices she made instead of just accepting it as his due.

Arrogant bastard.

The knock on her door was not entirely unexpected. Truthfully, she was a little happy that he had even bothered to come. Or maybe he was just stopping by to give her the latest update on Lorelei's escape.

With that cheerful thought on her mind, she wrenched the deadbolt with much more force than necessary before pulling the door open.

Jane stood on her step, the crazed energy that had been possessing him since their return from Las Vegas still evident. He had shed his coat since he left the office, and rolled his sleeves up. "Can I come in?" he asked, voice very controlled.

Of course he was controlled. It was easy to keep yourself in check when all you did was lie to people. No sense in messing with real emotions. In that moment, she hated him, from his tousled curls to his argyle socks.

She let him enter, her irritated hand gesture indicating that he should make himself at home. She sat herself back on the couch, trusting the Jane would get around to whatever it was that brought him there soon enough.

He didn't wait long. Perching on the cushion to her right, he looked directly into her eyes. "Do you mind telling me why you've been so vindictively angry the last few days?"

"No," she said shortly.

He frowned. She knew he was annoyed. "It's about Lorelei, yes?"

"Why ever would you think that?" she asked archly, eyes opened wide in faux innocence.

"Why is this such an issue for you?" he asked, anger suddenly bubbling to the surface.

"Because you've made it one!" she retorted. "This isn't the first time we've had a Red John accomplice in custody, Jane! But I certainly don't remember you having this sort of crazed mentality with Rebecca!"

He shook his head, brushing away her accusations. "That was a totally different situation, Lisbon. When we had Rebec-''

"You weren't sleeping with her?" Lisbon supplied helpfully, smiling with all the acid and bitterness she could muster.

Jane stared. "Are we back to that?"

"Did we ever leave?" she responded.

"Lisbon," he said, putting weight behind every word, "Lorelei means nothing to me beyond the information she can provide. What do I need to do to make you understand that?"

Her brain, already winding down dark and twisted paths, wondered if _she_ meant anything to Jane beyond what she could do for him. "Hm," was all she trusted herself to say.

"Lisbon," he said again, reaching out a hand towards her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," she said, voice a harsh whisper.

His hands stilled instantly, midway to her. "Why not?" he asked, bewilderment and something that might have been hurt coloring his tone.

She steeled herself. "Because you've remembered how to manipulate people through touch again. And I don't want to be hurt by you that way." _Since that's the only way you haven't hurt me yet,_ she added in her head. But there were some things she wasn't willing to put out there.

His brows furrowed as he slowly relaxed his hands back into his lap. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Convulsively, she swallowed. "I can't ever take what you're offering at face value again," she said. "I can't ever trust that when you put your hand out to comfort me that you're not just playing some sort of elaborate game. Hell, I don't know if I can even believe anything you've ever told me, Jane!" she shouted, eyes flashing. "As far as I know, it could have all just been hyperbole. God knows you have no qualms about telling people only what they want to hear." In her mind, she could hear his words from earlier about Lorelei. _I'd ask her to marry me if I thought she'd give me Red John._

Anger, hot, fierce, and justified roared through her veins, pounded in her temples. Anger, and something that felt suspiciously like betrayal.

For the first time since her rant had started, she dared to peer into Jane's face.

The emotion in his eyes was captivating. He truly looked devastated, like she had wounded him deeply and unexpectedly.

But how on earth would she know if this was real or if he was merely playing on her feelings again? Maybe he knew how exactly he should widen those beautiful eyes of his. Maybe he practiced injecting that degree of pain into his face while looking in the mirror.

A jolt of what felt like sheer heartbreak shot through her, leaving a trail of lead in its wake. Oh, God. She would never know for sure. Every look, every touch that had passed between them might have been a lie.

Her throat caught in shocked hysteria. This…this whole thing was unfathomable, and yet…she just didn't know.

Jane suddenly took her face in his hands, bringing their foreheads together.

"Open your eyes," he commanded.

She hadn't realized they were closed. Hadn't realized that her breath was coming in short, choking pants. Clinically, she realized she was having a panic attack.

"Teresa. Look at me." The tone of his voice didn't allow for argument.

Her lids opened automatically and she was met with Jane's concerned eyes. If she hadn't known him as well as she now knew she did, she would have sworn that there was genuine fear in those striking blues.

"Take a deep breath," he murmured, thumbs brushing away the tears that she never knew had fallen. "Again," he instructed, after she had followed his directions.

He stayed with her the whole time, calm voice and warm hands against her face bringing her back from the edge. But that was Jane, she reasoned. Always good with words. Even if he never meant any of them.

When her breathing had slowed to its regular pace, she tried to pull away from his grasp, but his hands were unexpectedly firm.

"I don't know what to say," he finally whispered, eyes searching hers. "Of all of the things I had expected to say tonight, convincing you that I haven't been lying to you for years wasn't on my agenda."

She was silent.

"God, Teresa," he said, voice shot through with sudden emotion. "Please don't give up on me now. You're the only good and decent thing I have left in my life."

The admission startled her. Her treacherous heart skipped a beat.

He sighed, expression sad now. "There are seven billion people in this world, Lisbon, and you're the only one I trust completely. I am…sorrier than I can express if you don't think you can do the same."

The raw edge in his voice cut through some of her anger. Without thinking, she curled her fingers around his wrists. His lips twitched.

"Stop being afraid," he told her. "Yes, I lie. And manipulate people. And yes, I am doing absolutely everything I can to get Lorelei to crack. I won't apologize for it, and I only regret that it's hurting you."

"How do I know?" she asked. Her voice sounded small, almost childlike. It was pathetic how badly she wanted to believe him, was ready to be reassured by him. Stupid man.

Jane pressed his lips to her forehead. "How do you know that I regret hurting you? Are you out of your mind?"

She had to chuckle softly at his tone. Finally, finally, she admitted to herself that she was behaving like a crazy person. Her shoulders sagged.

Jane gently removed his hands from her face and instead, twined their fingers together. "Please trust me," he whispered, bringing their joined hands to his mouth. "Everything I've told you, I've meant. Every time I've touched you, it was honest. Believe me," he urged, lips moving against the back of one of her hands. "How can I get you trust me again?"

_Kiss me_ was the immediate answer her brain supplied, which was not helpful. She was not Lorelei Martins, and she was not going to play this game. She quelled the thought as quickly as she could, but she wondered if she had been fast enough when she saw Jane smile slightly.

And then she stopped thinking altogether, as Jane leaned forward, nose sliding down her cheekbone softly, one of his hands resting against her face once more. The first brush of his lips was as insubstantial as a butterfly's wing. She still trembled.

When the pressure of his kiss increased, she fought to keep her head. It didn't work. She remembered to close her eyes, however, and after a few seconds she remembered to respond.

His mouth was warm, wet, tasting vaguely of tea and something so intrinsically Jane that her heart stuttered. The world around them seemed to abruptly resolve and reform itself around the place where their lips met.

The kiss was sweet, but brief. When Jane raised his head, he was smiling, expression open. "You know," he remarked casually, "that was not at all how I imagined our first kiss."

The easy way he confessed that he'd thought about kissing before now her melted away almost all of her residual anger. Jane could read that, she was sure.

He brushed his thumb over her lips. "There's nothing for you to be jealous of or worried about. Just stick with me, Teresa, please. Just trust me." His eyes were imploring.

"Okay," she whispered. And suddenly, she knew she did. That she always had.

He slept on her couch that night, wrapped up in a throw blanket. She knew he did it to further reassure her, but it didn't mean she didn't appreciate it.

In the morning, he was long gone, somehow managing to sneak out and relock the deadbolt without waking her.

She found the note underneath her pillow as she was hurriedly throwing the covers back onto her bed before work.

_Anytime you feel I'm losing your trust_, he wrote_, I'll be more than happy to reassure you again. _

She smiled, feeling really at peace for the first time since Jane had disappeared almost seven months ago. They would be okay.

She just had to trust him on that.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Originally, I had no intention of making this a two-parter, but something was bugging me. I suspect it was Jane. He must have been too busy organizing his drawer of brand new argyle socks to be in the story the way I had requested. And no, I don't know what my obsession with his argyle socks is. **

**Of Anger and Forgiveness**

**Part II: All of the Above**

The not-so-cowardly thing to do would have been to wait until Lisbon woke before he scampered out of her apartment. He could have made her breakfast; she certainly could have used the calories.

Or, if he had been an even braver sort, he could have crawled into bed with her. She would have made the expected protests, yes, but there was no doubt he would have stayed put. And waking up with an armful of Teresa Lisbon was most likely a fabulous way to start the day.

Instead, he had scribbled a note, stuck it under her pillow, and left, the sky just starting to streak pink in the east.

The truth was, he was just a little scared. Or maybe scared wasn't the right word. Uncertain? Apprehensive? Was there an _all of the above_ option?

He had kissed her the night before. Had taken her face in his hands and just _done _it, like he had thought about so many, many times.

It was significant, one of the most significant things he had done in the past decade. Yes, he had kissed Erica Flynn, but that was different. He wouldn't even bother denying that he was attracted to her. He was; she was beautiful, charming (if you put the whole murderess thing aside), and well, he was still a man. But when he had kissed her, a random woman that he liked superficially, it was more of a test. The first woman he had kissed with any sort of desire in nine years.

The sky didn't fall, the guilt didn't threaten to overwhelm him the way he thought it would, Angela's ghost didn't come back to haunt him.

And it felt nice. Nice enough that he was forced to resist the temptation to put his arms around Erica to remember what it was like hold a woman in such an embrace.

That had been his most recent catalyst, at least in regards to personal relationships. He had come to the conclusion he was actually going to be able to break the barrier of touch. That in the future, having a life with someone he loved was something that could happen.

The barrier of loving someone deeply…well, he had gone over that particular hurdle years before. He hadn't done a thing about it. And what could he have done, anyway? Realistically speaking, he was in no shape to enter into a real relationship.

And Lisbon was far too busy _not_ acknowledging her feelings for him. He knew how she felt. The rest of the team did, too. But Lisbon herself had no intention of ever revealing those feelings to him. It gave him a pinched feeling in his chest, thinking that she had decided that her own personal happiness didn't matter.

A bitter-edged smile crossed his face. He had apparently decided that her personal happiness didn't matter as well. While in Vegas, he had wondered what it would have done to him if their roles had been reversed. What if Lisbon had disappeared for six months without a word? Frankly, he was fairly certain he would have lost what was left of his mind. Then again, he would have found her, wouldn't have stopping looking until he did.

She had simply let him go, thinking that it was what he wanted. He had never been forced to face the phrase _loving someone enough to let them go_ before. It humbled him.

And then, _then_, he had reappeared with no notice whatsoever and drug her into one of his most elaborate schemes yet. That, naturally, hadn't worked out quite the way he planned. But they had Lorelei, the bridge that would lead him directly to Red John.

The corners of his eyes tightened. _Had _ Lorelei. Past-tense. Because the FBI were egotistical idiots who may or may not be working for a serial killer.

His urgency and irritation were justified, he knew. Why did no one else realize the precarious situation that was going on around them? Time was extraordinarily limited. Honestly, he was half-surprised Lorelei had made it back to Sacramento in something other than a body bag.

Which probably meant that Red John trusted her. Mostly. Sort of. More so than he trusted most of his other disciples. That was distinctly unnerving. He needed to work quickly.

His opinion wasn't appreciated by the others. He didn't have time to care.

However, by prioritizing, he had managed to alienate the one person he expected to always be by his side, to back him up.

Oh, Lisbon was still with him, no mistake, giving into his many and varied requests. But if she had loved him any less, she probably would have shot him by now.

He had to admit that he would have deserved it. He had just been _so focused_ on getting the information he needed out of Lorelei that he had forgotten how fragile a woman's heart was. Lisbon was no exception, despite her outward persona.

The night before, when they had stood by the elevator, he had seen some of her true feelings swimming across the surface of her eyes. Fear, anger, hurt, betrayal. It was the betrayal that grabbed him by the throat.

He had gone to her office to mull over her expression, absently holding a cup of tea that had long since grown cold. Her couch was exactly as he left it, right down to the arrangement of the throw pillows. He knew she had been keeping it that way for him.

Why the betrayal? What had he done?

_Maybe it was the whole sleeping-with-Lorelei thing_, his subconscious supplied, rolling its imaginary eyes. But he didn't think so. That wasn't to say she was just fine with the situation. In fact, he knew it cut her deeper than she would ever be willing to admit. That he could understand; as much as he teased her when she had a date, the thought of Lisbon even having dinner with someone else was enough to make him feel like he had swallowed lead. He wasn't sure how he would react if she started sleeping with someone. Badly, he suspected. And yes, it would feel like a betrayal. And yes, he knew he was a hypocrite.

But Lisbon had been dealing with it. She had worked with Bertram for hours to figure out how to save his job, had made countless impassioned pleas to the FBI. And she had managed to have conversations with him, even share a laugh or two.

He wasn't sure where her sudden rage had come from. Or at least, he hadn't been at the time of its first appearance.

She had been holding herself together for the sake of his job. When that was secure, when she knew he wasn't going anywhere, she took the opportunity to sort through how she felt about the rest of the mess they were in.

To say that she had been _angry_ would be akin to saying that Alaska was a bit cold. The understatement that ate Sacramento, really.

Giving up on figuring out her thoughts, Jane set his undrunk tea in the sink in the kitchen. The bruised look in her eyes wouldn't let him go, though.

And so he had gone to talk to her, reason with her, coax her out of her fury.

Instead, he wound up feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach. She didn't trust him anymore. Didn't trust him at all.

To have her recoil so sharply when he had reached for her…he had been forced to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

Did she think, did she truly think that he could keep up a charade this elaborate with her for nine years? God, he would be exhausted by now. But apparently that was exactly what she had been thinking.

He couldn't imagine what it would be like, wondering if the person you were closest to was just playing games with you. To love someone and know you couldn't trust them.

The utter defeat in her eyes had nearly been his undoing.

Suddenly, he realized that in his haste to break Lorelei, he had been silently confirming all of Lisbon's insecurities. Did he really care about her at all? Was she just another useful tool to him? Judging by his actions, there was only one conclusion she could have drawn in her present state of mind.

"Please don't give up on me now," he had whispered after talking her out of a panic attack. "You're the only good and decent thing I have left in my life."

_I love you. I need you. Stay with me. _

Of course, all of that remained unspoken. He still hoped she knew.

When he had asked what he needed to do to win her trust again, her eyes had screamed the answer. He knew her mind had replicated the exact response Lorelei had given, and he knew she hated that it did. At the same time, he also knew that it was what she wanted. It didn't hurt that he wanted it, too.

So he had leaned in and kissed her, gently, briefly. The desperation he felt from her lips was nearly painful. He really was a terrible person to have caused someone he loved that much agony.

When they broke apart, he glibly remarked that he definitely hadn't imagined their first going that way. It was true enough. He had pictured the event, dreamed about it, created probably thousands of different scenarios.

Never, in even one of them, had he been trying to reassure her that he wasn't the world's most heartless conman. Yes, he supposed he _could_ be that manipulative, if he wanted to, but not with Lisbon. Not ever. Besides, she was good enough at reading him by now that she should have seen the truth.

Then again, people tended to see what they expect to see. She felt betrayal when he slept with Lorelei, so she expected to see more treason. His behavior had simply confirmed her fears.

Someone should present him with an award for being an idiot.

Before she had even brought the subject up, he had asked to sleep on her couch. He knew she hated that he slept at the office more often than not. It worried her to think of him wandering the halls of the CBI in the dark. And making the extra effort to stay with her wouldn't go amiss.

At first, he had made an actual effort to sleep, wrapped in a blanket that smelled deliciously like Lisbon. But then he had become very distracted by the fact that said brunette was sleeping not particularly far away.

He had slept in her presence many times before, certainly. Countless times he had sought sanctuary in her office while she worked steadily, watching her diligence as he drifted off. But very rarely had he been close when she was asleep.

So he had contented himself to lounge on the soft cushions of her sofa, his thoughts spiraling in his head.

Looking back now, not eight hours later, he wished he would have been braver. But there was no point in driving himself crazy with 'what ifs.' He would make a point to be in the same situation in the not so distant future, and he would make a different choice.

He was sitting on her couch going over Lorelei's file for the thousandth time, legs crossed negligently, when she arrived at work.

The slight hesitation and barest hint of color in her cheeks told him she was very clearly remembering what had happened the night before, and was unsure of what to do.

He could sympathize. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing now. For the moment, he supposed he would settle for their old relationship. The rift between them wasn't totally healed, he knew that, but that would come in time. They needed to start working in the same direction again, for everyone's sake, including the Serious Crime Unit's. It made everyone visibly uncomfortable when Lisbon was fighting with him. Her recent rage-fueled behavior had also started to strain the team.

Right. Normalcy it was.

"Good morning," he said, smiling.

"Morning," she returned, following his lead, hanging her jacket on the coat rack.

"I have doughnuts," he announced, holding up the paper bag next to him and waving it. Since he hadn't been brave enough to make her breakfast, he could at least ensure she got something to eat.

"Bless you," she said, smirking. She settled herself next to him, grabbing the sack of pastries.

"Don't eat too many," he warned. "All that sugar on top of the three cups of coffee you've probably already had is going to make you twitchy."

In response, she took a deliberately huge bite of doughnut and chewed slowly. It was a very Lisbon-esque response, and he smiled.

Grace chose that moment to knock tentatively on the door before pushing it open. Jane knew she was worried about invoking the boss's wrath again. He also knew that Grace understood the source of Lisbon's anger and wouldn't mind punching him in the nose.

The redhead seemed slightly surprised at the picture that greeted her. It was probably understandable – they were both sitting on the couch, closer together than they normally sat, clearly teasing each other. The next emotion Jane saw flit across Grace's face was relief.

"What's up, Van Pelt?" Lisbon asked, managing to swallow the monumental amount of doughnut she had shoved in her mouth to spite him.

"The, uh, FBI is going to be here in twenty," she informed them both. "According to them, they have a lead."

Jane felt the familiar pulse of obsession start to thrum in his veins. If there was even a chance they could get Lorelei back…

"Okay," Lisbon said, glancing at him once, the boss once more. "Get the conference room ready. And tell Cho and Rigsby that I expect them to play nice."

"Will do," Grace nodded.

As soon as she was gone, Lisbon turned to him. "Promise me something."

He met her eyes, noting absently that she was calm, professional. "What's that?" he asked, forcing his thoughts to focus on the woman in front of him.

"Don't set any of the FBI guys up today. I mean it," she continued, when she saw the corners of his lips turn up. "No manufacturing evidence, no unfounded accusations, no destroying perfectly good bracelets to get witnesses."

He smirked fully. "I'll ease your mind, then," he said, reaching into his pocket with one hand and taking her arm with the other. With a few deft movements, he slid the bracelet onto her tiny wrist. He took another moment to appreciate her fragility. "There," he told her. "I have removed myself from temptation. And it even matches your shirt."

Before she could object, he stood up, pulling her with him. "Let's go, boss. Wouldn't want to keep the FBI's finest waiting."

His hand on her back, ushering her into the conference room was noted by Cho and Grace. Rigsby was engrossed with his phone, pushing the keys in a frustrated manner. Jane wondered if he was having problems with Sarah.

The other two, more observant members of SCU were clearly wondering if Jane's gesture meant that they could stop walking on eggshells. Lisbon herself answered the question throughout the rest of the day.

She was her normal self, driven, exacting, but there was no pulsing undercurrent of anger. Rigsby cracked a joke that made her laugh. She ignored Cho's muttered comment about the FBI.

All in all, team morale at the CBI was back to levels that hadn't been seen in months.

Jane observed this all from his couch.

The lead the FBI had come up with was a dead end. He knew that within the first hour. Still, they had all gone through the motions.

It was after seven before he was alone with Lisbon again. The rest of the team had long since left, and Jane himself was considering getting out of the building. But not by himself.

He lounged in the doorway of Lisbon's office for almost thirty seconds before she noticed him. Taking advantage of her lack of attention, he studied her. She looked decidedly more restful than she had in ages. Her dark hair glimmered in the light as she checked and rechecked some piece of information.

"Hey," he finally said, figuring it was probably rude to just stare from the door frame for a prolonged amount of time.

"Hey yourself," she responded automatically, setting her pen down.

"Buy you dinner?" he asked, hoping for nonchalance. "Those doughnuts were a long time ago." She hadn't stopped for lunch. He had taken note of that.

"Jane, you're not responsible for feeding me," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, someone has to make sure you eat," he retorted. "Clearly, it's not a responsibility you can handle yourself.

She wrinkled her nose, but didn't object further when he grabbed her jacket.

They drove separately, but she did take his offered arm as they walked to the door of the restaurant. He was aware that they looked like a couple to the casual observer. It was almost alarming how alright he was with that.

Dinner was enjoyable – low key and delicious. He prolonged it with dessert. From across the table, he knew Lisbon was loath to end their evening, too, but there was really no reason to stay. And taking another step towards each other was not something he was sure he could do, not just yet.

But soon.

At the door to her car, he leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth very lightly. "See you in the morning," he murmured.

"Good night," she returned, just as softly.

He watched until she drove out of sight, smiling wistfully.

As he expected, she was the first at work the next morning, hair pulled back into a ponytail. He liked her hair longer. It made it more difficult for her to hide how beautiful she was.

The thing that made his day, however, despite the murder case that they had been assigned, happened as they were driving to a Sacramento suburb. Lisbon was turning the wheel of Chevy, forcing the vehicle into a tight turn, and then sleeve of her blazer slid up.

The bracelet he had given her was still clasped around her wrist.

"What?" she asked, a faint blush on her cheeks when she noticed the direction of her gaze. "It matched my shirt today, too."

In a shocking turn of events, the bracelet happened to match every shirt she wore for the next two weeks. Jane strongly suspected she had gone shopping to make sure her string of coincidences could continue.

They were getting closer to a relationship, he knew. Or maybe they were already in one. Either way, he had won her trust back. Had won her back.

And that was enough.

For now.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN**: How the hell did this become a chapter fic? This is it, however. No more for this story after this. I adore each of you who have reviewed; you make me smile. And write more. Ahem. On that note, please go read "Poison and Wine" – it's a bit more melancholy than my norm, but I'd appreciate feedback.

Special note to the unnamed Guest who leaves me the loveliest reviews. I keep the notification e-mails and read them when I'm having a bad day.

Clearly, thanks to episode two, this has become an AU.

**Disclaimer**: If I owned them, they would be doing this instead of catching murderers.

**Part III: Small Hours and Little Wonders**

Since his return, he had slept on Lisbon's couch four times. He knew where everything in her kitchen was stored, what was in her medicine cabinet, and that Lisbon organized her closet by color.

She rarely kept food in her apartment and she slept on her left side.

He didn't know that because he had been brave enough to join her. He knew because he had given into his insatiable curiosity one night and peered into her darkened room.

It had been one of the biggest temptations of his life, seeing her lying there with crisp percale sheets tangled around her legs, hair spread over her pillow. The next step would have been easy.

He would have perched on the edge of her bed. Leaned over her sleeping form, rested his hands on either side of her head. Would have kissed her softly, carefully at first, waiting for her to wake. And then just never stopped.

She would have welcomed it, would have wrapped sleepy arms around him, pulled him into her warmth. He himself was only half dressed; she was wearing less than that. A few quick, sliding motions, hands trailing over soft flesh, and they would have been skin to skin.

Instead, he had gripped the door frame convulsively until his knuckles turned white. Had forced himself to retreat to the couch, where he lay with his arms folded behind his head, taking deep, calming breaths.

Biofeedback was a neat trick, and he had it mastered under normal circumstances. It was more difficult to do when he was drunk, but still nothing more than a slight challenge. Controlling his heart rate and breathing was damn near impossible at the moment. His brain simply refused to listen to the commands he was giving it.

Really, this was getting ridiculous. He needed to stop spending so much time outside of work with Lisbon. At least twice a week, he cajoled her into having dinner with him. He had kissed the corner of her mouth three times now, and each time it became more difficult to not tilt his head those small, crucial millimeters.

He was constantly looking for excuses to put his hands on her, and even he was amazed at some of the things he had come up with. At night, he slept on the couch in her office almost exclusively.

So what was at the root of his hesitation? Why didn't he just cross the last bridge left? Lisbon was willing; he knew that for certain. Sometimes he wished that she would decide to take control of the situation, remove him from the damnable position of having to make the choices.

What would he do, he often wondered, if she decided she was suddenly tired of this endless, circling game they were playing? What if she, apropos of nothing, grabbed his jacket lapels and kissed him in an elevator?

Now there was a fantasy he had entertained once or twice. A day. One of many, at this point.

The thing was, once he took that last, final step, there was no going back. He wasn't the sort to just have casual sex with a friend, and Lisbon really wasn't either. Besides, she wasn't just a friend. She was…not his lover, but his love.

He snorted. His love? Was he living in the 19th century now?

Still, he supposed it was an appropriate term. He wasn't in a relationship with her, in the definitive sense, but he certainly wasn't in one with anybody else. He wanted her. He loved her.

To that end, he had taken a day off, soon after the last time he had slept on her couch. Her voice had sounded concerned, though she had given him the go-ahead for the time away.

It was a picturesque day, sun bright and shining, and he absently wished for a convertible as he drove down the coast towards Malibu. California really was a beautiful place. He rolled down his windows.

The beach house was exactly as he left it – dust gathering on the floors, the solitary tea cup and kettle the only dishes in the kitchen. He passed through the rooms without really looking at them until he reached the sliding doors that lead to the back deck.

From the deck, he followed the path down to the pier overlooking the water. He used to meet clients here, but more than that, he used to watch the sun rise and set here with Angela. It had been her favorite part of the property.

He rested against the rails, staring into the crashing waves in the distance. The sense of peace was remarkable. Usually this place was a reminder of what he had lost, of what he had yet to do. In the past, whenever he had felt like he was losing his focus, he would come here, let the anguish settle on him like a heavy coat. Feeling that pain was a way to sharpen his vision.

His purpose today was different. Holding on to the unexpected tranquility, he slipped his wedding ring off his finger. In his mind, he could see himself tossing the gold band into the ocean, pictured himself watching as the tide carried it away.

In reality, he knew it was too much of a dramatic step for him. Instead, he slid the narrow circlet onto his right hand.

It was time to move on.

At that moment, a sudden gust of wind swept up, stirring his hair. For just an instant, he swore he could smell his wife's perfume.

Patrick Jane didn't believe in such things, of course. But he still whispered softly to the breeze as he turned around, absently brushing at the unexpected moisture on his cheeks.

"Love you, Ang."

He stayed in a hotel that night.

His first instinct was to show up on Lisbon's doorstep again, but he realized tonight had the potential to be rough, from an emotional standpoint, and he didn't want the poor woman to see how damaged he really was.

It was funny – he had worn his wedding ring constantly since the day he got married (excepting the few times he had been incarcerated); over the years, he had stopped giving it much thought. Until he took it off, he had no idea how much he checked for it.

He tended to tap his fingers together, always ending with his thumb sliding across his palm, brushing the metal band. Now all his thumb touched was the indentation left by years of wear, markedly paler than the rest of his hand.

His right hand felt different as well. Heavier. To him, it looked all wrong, though he supposed most casual observers wouldn't think much of it. Many men wore rings on their right hands, including Rigsby.

In a moment of weakness, he considered moving the ring back, but talked himself out of it.

After all, he wasn't a married man anymore. He wasn't acting like one, and he certainly wasn't thinking like one. Besides, it wasn't fair to Lisbon.

Every time they went somewhere, just the two of them, he would notice at least one person's raised eyebrows, someone assuming Lisbon was the other woman. She had noted the behavior, too, though she hadn't reacted much beyond a small, wry smile and a quick glance at his left hand.

He knew she would never mention it to him. She would never ask him why he still wore it, or hint that he should take it off.

It was going to be a hard habit to break.

From his hotel window, he watched the sun rise. He hadn't slept a bit, but that was to be expected.

After showering, he headed to the CBI, trying to not focus on how his left hand still felt naked. He really needed to get himself under control. The goal was to not draw attention to what he had done; if he kept behaving this way, someone was going to notice.

People would make a big deal out of it, he knew that. Well, it sort of _was_ a big deal, but he could do without the pomp and circumstance.

Lisbon managed to find him as he was steeping his first cup of tea. He heard her footsteps pause in the doorway.

"Hey," she said, happy to see him.

"Hey, yourself," he replied without turning around.

"Did you enjoy your day off?" She was clearly fishing for information. He smiled.

"I'm not sure 'enjoyed' is the right word," he said, thoughtfully. "But I accomplished what I set out to do." His words were cryptic enough to set her slightly on edge, and he knew it. No matter what steps he had taken personally, pushing Lisbon's buttons was always going to be one of his favorite activities.

"You know you make me nervous with statements like that, Jane," she said, coming to stand beside him and commandeering the coffee pot.

He smirked in response, and her face scrunched in worry.

"Oh, God, just tell me that whatever you did, I won't have to break any laws to fix it."

"You have no faith in me at all, do you?" he asked, clucking his tongue. "I promise, no fixing or filling out of forms in triplicate will be needed."

She just sighed, reaching above his head for a fresh coffee cup. He could smell her perfume, subtle, but still inviting. Suddenly needing a reason to keep his hands to himself, he grabbed his tea cup with one hand, shoved the other in his pocket, and retreated to his couch in the bullpen.

The morning was quiet. Grace typed a few back-logged reports, Rigsby worked his way through three bags of chips, and Cho surreptitiously read a few chapters of a well-thumbed through novel by Vonnegut.

When the phone on Cho's desk rang, all pairs of eyes turned towards it. Within the first ten seconds, the team started reaching for their jackets. Though Cho was stoic as always, the questions he asked signaled that someone else had been killed.

They split into their usual groups in the parking lot: Cho, Rigsby, and Grace climbed into the Suburban, and he and Lisbon followed them in the smaller Chevy.

It was on their way to the crime scene that Lisbon noticed his ring, or lack thereof. He was reaching across the console, fiddling with the radio, when he noticed her sudden fixation.

Without saying a word, he showed her his right hand. Her nonplussed expression stayed firmly in place, and he worried that she would drive off the road.

"Watch where you're going," he said quietly, and then surprised even himself by curling his hand over hers. After a moment, she turned her palm over, lacing their fingers together.

The next time she looked at him, he winked. Damned if he knew what it meant, but it seemed like the thing to do.

She drove one handed with some difficulty, but she was unwilling to break their connection. Soon, far too soon, he saw the swarm of flashing lights and police vehicles that signaled they had reached their destination.

As Lisbon parked the car, he squeezed her fingers gently before releasing her hand. Their moment was over, at least for now. Still, he kept close to her side for most of their time on scene.

Grace joined them for the ride back to headquarters, Lisbon having requested her computer skills for the investigation.

Around three in the afternoon, he found himself lounging on Lisbon's couch, reading the victim's biography, and waiting for the woman herself to return. She had gone down to the coffee cart to get something foamy and fancy, with twice the caffeine content she needed.

By the time she got back, his brain was almost entirely immersed in the case file, drawing rapid conclusions and suppositions. Lisbon sat on the couch next to him, coffee in one hand, and took a deep breath.

She tapped the ring on his right hand, effectively capturing his attention. He met her eyes. "Are you alright?" she asked.

He smiled, just a little. "I think," he told her.

Her brows furrowed, trying to find the words to ask the question on her mind. "Can I ask…" she began, but trailed off, losing her courage.

"It was time," he said quietly. "I'm not exactly behaving like a married man lately, and it was time to stop presenting myself as one."

There were any number of questions she could have asked, would have been perfectly entitled to ask, but instead, she simply nodded thoughtfully. He supposed she was working through all of the implications his words carried. There were certainly a lot.

He hoped she was alright with the conclusions she was drawing, because he had suddenly realized that he was incredibly close to jumping in all the way. So close, in fact, that it almost took his breath away. _She_ was so close, too, and it was distracting the hell out of him. He needed to add some distance or Lisbon was going to find herself pinned under him, probably with a bunch of spilled coffee everywhere.

Never in his life had he been so happy to see Cho, who had returned from canvassing the scene, ready to give his boss an update.

The case remained in the early, unsolvable stages for the rest of the day, and Lisbon ordered the team to go home at a reasonable time.

Without asking permission, he followed her back to her apartment. The sky had clouded, and rain was threatening. In the distance, lighting was silhouetted against the backdrop of thunderheads.

He could feel his blood start to thrum through his veins. _No going back_, his mind warned. With laser focus, he watched Lisbon get out of her car and make her way to the door. _Why the hell would you want to go back?_ he answered himself.

With that, he shut the car off and practically jogged to catch up with her.

He was patient enough to wait until she had set her coat and briefcase down before wrapping her in his arms and lowering his mouth to hers.

Her moment of surprised hesitation quickly gave way to compliance, and she wound her arms around his neck.

This kiss was nothing like the one they had shared before, brief and fleeting. He kissed her the way a man should kiss the woman he loved – warmly, urgently, repressed passion making it almost rough.

Her fingers twisted into his hair, effectively holding him in place. Now she was just being ridiculous; where was he going to go?

He slid his hands beneath her jacket, skimming his palms down her sides. When she opened her mouth to sigh, he took advantage, learning fully what she tasted like.

Unconsciously, she had pressed herself flush against him, body aligning with his in a way that made it damn difficult to remember why he shouldn't just take her against the door. He held on to her hips, moving her deliberately until he was rewarded with a soft moan.

That was his cue.

With massive effort, he drug his mouth away from hers. It took her a moment to open her eyes, and when she did, he nearly forgot why he stopped in the first place. They were hot, bright, hazy with passion.

He sucked in a deep breath. "Consider yourself warned. If you don't tell me to go away in the next, oh, five seconds, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."

It was almost cliché, and yet, he needed to know that she wanted this, too. She held his gaze, but said nothing.

"Five," he whispered.

She smiled, sliding her hands back into his hair.

"Four."

Very slowly, she raised herself onto her toes.

He never got _three_ out.

Somehow, in the tangled mess of limbs and lips and stuttering heartbeats, they wound up in her bedroom. He wasn't entirely sure where half of his clothing went, nor did he remotely care. All he knew was that when his bare chest met hers, his brain promptly shut down.

Beneath the badge and the blazer, Lisbon was all woman. Soft skin, sensuous curves, and places on her body that had gone from warm to flatly scalding. He kissed every inch of her he could reach, something almost holy about what he was doing. Long before he was ready to stop, she was trembling, very nearly sobbing.

Deciding that he would have plenty of time for ample exploration later, he recaptured her mouth. But then it was his turn to tremble as her hands snaked down his chest, leaving blistering trails.

_Biofeedback_, his impeded brain reminded him. When she touched him, however, all of that went out the proverbial window.

He sucked in a sharp breath, leaning his forehead on her bare shoulder.

"Stop that, woman," he said after a few moments, voice hoarse. "Or we'll both be sorry."

She gave a throaty laugh, hands going from toying to guiding, and he paused at the place his lips and hands had already been.

He took stock of what she looked like, flushed with desire, hair rumpled and lips swollen. Forget bridesmaid dresses; this was a look he wanted to see on her more often.

When he pushed forward, he was unprepared for the overload of pleasure. His eyes crossed, and he bit – literally _bit _– his hand to stop the whole thing from ending immediately.

Lisbon was not helpful, nails scraping his back, hips roving restlessly beneath him. She was close; he had made sure of that already. Now it was just a matter of bringing her over the edge.

He angled his hips slightly, her suddenly parted lips an unmistakable tell that he had guessed right. Another few minutes of carefully calculated movements and he felt her come apart, muscles clenching, hands grasping his arms convulsively.

And he let himself go, setting his own rhythm, her name falling from his lips just before he followed her into the dark abyss of heaven.

When they had both come down, Jane lay with his head on her chest, listening to the sound of her still rapid heartbeat. With shaking hands, she brushed his now-damp hair from his forehead.

"If you're going to act like this anytime I give you the day off," she said, sounding amused, "then you never have to come back to work."

He chuckled, pressing his lips into her skin. "I'll tell Bertram you said that," he threatened.

"Are you kidding?" she asked, still playing with his hair. "He'd probably be so happy you're gone that he'd promote me."

"Meh." He tugged the sheet over both of them before settling back against her.

They were quiet again, the peace of the room drifting across them. Jane reached for one of her hands, twining their fingers together.

He would have figured that they would have more to say. After all, they had been working towards this moment for a decade or so. But, in their typical fashion, they were apparently just going to adapt as they went. There were some things he needed to get out, though.

"I love you," he whispered, raising himself up enough so that he could see her face.

She smiled tenderly. "Are you going to pretend to not remember saying that again?"

"I'm sorry," he said, mirroring her smile, leaning further in to kiss her lightly. "Can you possibly forgive me for my egregious sin, Saint Teresa?"

She touched his face for an instant. "Love you, too." Her eyes sparkled.

He kissed her again, just as softly, then shifted to pull her across his chest. His fingers traced abstract patterns on her back, as she rested her head against his heart.

The next thing he knew, her warmth was gone, and a shrill ringing had taken its place. He heard a loud crash, then some muffled swearing.

"Lisbon!" she practically shouted, and his brain woke up enough to tell him she was on the phone. "Right," he heard her say. "Text me the address." There was another pause. "Yeah, I'll get a hold of Jane, don't worry. See you soon."

There were no lights on in the apartment, so all he saw was a dark, Lisbon-shaped shadow coming towards him, wrapped in a sheet.

"We're up," she said, sitting down on the mattress. He reached for her, wrapping his hands around her upper arms.

"No," he corrected, "_you're_ up. I am very obviously still in bed. Which is where you should be, too, by the way."

She laughed. "Believe me, I'd love to stay, but our services are required right at the moment."

He sighed. Loudly. "_Now?_ Really?"

Leaning forward, she kissed him quickly, before he had time to pull her closer. "Crime never sleeps, or didn't anyone tell you that?" With that, she was gone, taking the sheet with her again.

He shook his head. Something seemed off about this whole scenario. Really, now, he had just made love to Teresa Lisbon. By anyone's standards, this was A Big Deal. Surely they should have been given more than just a few hours before Teresa's damnable duty called.

But, he supposed, devotion to her job was one of the things he loved best about her. Not even the prospect of night in bed with him was enough to put her off the course. It was almost amusing, when he thought about it.

He was still shaking his head ten minutes later when she emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, nothing but the color in her cheeks giving away her recent activities.

He smiled at her as she holstered her gun. "So," he began, shrugging his jacket back on.

"So," she echoed, reaching for her keys.

"Do we just…go to work?" His tone of voice caused her to look up. "Just like nothing happened?"

"Did you want to put an announcement in the paper?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, that idea certainly has its merits," he noted, "but I was thinking on a little bit of a different level. Are we…I mean, are we public?"

She stared, clearly having not thought about this. It didn't take her long to reach a conclusion. "No," she said. "We're just us, the same as we've ever been. At least at work."

"Hm," he frowned. "So I suppose this means no seducing you in the break room?"

Slowly she shook her head. "Not even a little bit. The attic, the couch in my office, and the couch in the bullpen are also out."

He ushered her to the door. "If you insist, my dear." Then he smiled suddenly. "You didn't say a thing about the elevators."

To his great surprise and amusement, she winked.

Elevators it was, then.


End file.
